lesser evil
by orangish2
Summary: FBI agent Percival Graves investigates a suspected human trafficking ring in New York where he finds victim Credence Barebone, taken (willingly) from an abusive home. AU.


**Notes: Still madly in love with Credence Barebone and Percival Graves. They both deserve so so much love. Anyway, this was written on a whim, just the thought of FBI agent!Graves. I hope you don't mind, it was a piece for fun and just to realise that image I had in my mind. I may or may not continue it. If you squint there might be the beginnings of Percival/Credence, but I'm unsure still. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!**

* * *

 **lesser evil**

FBI agent Percival Graves investigates a suspected human trafficking ring in New York where he finds victim Credence Barebone, taken (willingly) from an abusive home.

* * *

Percival Graves has never really taken to loud noises and crowded environments.

He takes one last drag on his cigarette, exhaling, watching the grey smoke curling up into the humid night air. Across the street, as sleek cars with tinted windows drive by, he eyes the flickering nightclub sign over the door. Two burly bouncers stand just outside, slowly checking the IDs of a drunken queue of seedy-looking men and impatient girls in tight miniskirts.

The sliding door of the white, unmarked van parked next to Percival opens a crack. Abernathy's politely annoyed face appears, much to Percival's chagrin.

"You might want to get in there as soon as possible, sir. Intel's saying targets are visible—unsure when they will return to the back."

Percival nods before dropping the cigarette and extinguishing it with his polished, black leather shoe. His gun's tucked protectively into its holster at the side of his waist, a comforting weight—something he'll be focusing on as a way to stay grounded, he decides, as he looks both ways to cross the street.

 **XxX**

Unit Chief Seraphina Picquery had originally deemed this possible human trafficking ring as a lesser priority to arresting Grindelwald. Percival hadn't said much on the matter but it was Tina Goldstein who, having persisted so hard on it, finally uncovered the fact the illegal ring was related to helping incriminate the crime boss.

At that, Picquery had pushed them to investigate right away. _The Raven,_ one of Grindelwald's nightclubs, was a spot where there was a lead on the trafficking ring. Goldstein would know—she'd been tipped off, and had been visiting long before Picquery had acquiesced. The next night, they had set out.

Earlier, Tina had whispered to Percival, "Credence Barebone. As well as a few other children. They're missing down on Main Street." She'd shoved him papers with a picture of the boy: hollow cheeks, hair as black as the nightclub's name, angular jawline, feline eyes. Pretty. Modesty Barebone—seriously, Percival thinks, who's naming these kids?—is on the next page, a little young thing, blonde hair and blue eyes and Percival's not sure if he can swallow seeing a tiny girl like that in a nightclub.

Credence who? Percival had only shrugged her off, numbing himself to the pang of horror at _missing children_ and its connection to _human trafficking ring_. He's only just turned thirty-one, but his skills and accelerated education had earned him a position in the FBI at twenty. Just over a decade of seeing the scum of humanity can really turn any man's hair and heart grey. "Is it relevant?" he'd asked neutrally. He knew that the woman would check up on the adopted children once in a while, but he didn't know the extent of her involvement.

"Credence. He's the one who first told me about _The Raven_ , and now he's missing."

 **XxX**

The inside of the nightclub is worse than the hot summer air outside. Percival had gotten past the bouncers by a quick, menacing mention of Grindelwald's name, and now he's wishing the men warned him about the temperature change. He pulls at his collar—he'll have to talk about Picquery about changing the requirement for a suit at all times.

Squeezing past him are a variety of women in neon or black, skimpy clothing. Men are around too, dressed either casually or just like Percival is, but for reasons more sinister than a uniform requirement. Percival decides he's had enough warm, sticky body parts brushing past him for a lifetime. The music is loud and resonating through the entire nightclub, the bass causing each thump of his heart to feel a hundred times heavier. The lights are quickly changing colours, flashing and moving everywhere, and Percival struggles to properly view the various faces seated in the plush chairs scattered around him, and the heavy smell of alcohol sticks in his mouth, a pungent odour that, while welcomed to Percival on his days off, serves as a haze that settles over all the clubgoers writhing around him.

Percival finally sees what he's looking for. Tina, who's already watching him, is seated at a high table, dressed scandalously in a body-hugging, navy blue dress—Percival knows the government issued pistol is on her somewhere though—and her wrist, where a microphone is in a bracelet, is nonchalantly by her mouth. She's been here since an hour ago, maybe.

"Your nine o'clock, Graves," Percival hears Tina's voice in his earpiece, and he casually turns his head.

Through a thin curtain of luxurious looking fabric, a few suited men are reclining in the chaises closer to the back of the nightclub in a more private booth. A door is behind them, guarded by a couple men resembling the bouncers from outside. A barely-clothed woman, on an elevated pedestal by them, is swishing her hips around a pole, stilettos clicking against each other. The men are talking, laughing, clinking glasses, and Percival's eyes focus on an out-of-place young man with a semi-cringeable haircut hiding his eyes sitting, clearly uncomfortably, next to one of the men, whose arm is laid lazily on his hunched shoulders. Credence Barebone.

Percival's glances back at Tina, who moves her eyebrows, confirming that this is one of the targets.

Or victims, Percival decides to call them.

Percival slicks back his hair, running his fingers around the undercut, steeling himself. He saunters over to the cluster of chairs where the men are sitting, moving the curtain to one side. The way they're getting served, Percival knows right away they're the top dogs of this club. Grindelwald's the only one who would be able to identify Percival, and he is not among them. The woman at the pole, seeing him approaching, does a twirl and lifts herself up on the pole in hopes of getting some more dollar bills, but Percival ignores her, instead leaning suavely on the cushiony side of the chair.

"Hello, gentlemen," Percival says, knowing his voice will carry—it's relatively quieter and muffled here in the semi-private booth; he knows that Tina can hear everything he's saying and will be over in a flash with backup if anything goes awry. The men, well dressed and handsome with an air of creepiness, smile widely and mirthlessly at him, sizing him up. The man seated next to whom Percival knows is Credence Barebone.

"How can we help you?" one of them says. The man seated next to Credence is silent, eyes watching Percival's like a hawk.

"Got with one of your dancers last night. Not too satisfied, though," Percival drawls, already formulating a backstory in case they ask any questions—Tina's voice is also in his ear, encouraging him. He'd done his research on _The Raven,_ its workings and its "dancers". He pulls out a wallet from his pocket, carelessly thumbing through a couple stacks of bills (FBI can afford some props, at least). "He's got great customer service, the man. Jack Hammer. He directed me to you gentlemen. Said you would have a different … selection for me. Is that true?"

The man who just spoke grins toothily at him, recognition at the name Jack Hammer. His eyes are following the movement of the bills. "Indeed… Jack Hammer's a real crowd pleaser. What are you looking for?"

"Young, beautiful, and obedient," Percival answers smoothly. Inwardly he just wants to gag on the words, but his face keeps composure as his eyes flick to Credence, who is still staring down at his feet. "Who's this one?"

The man next to Credence finally speaks with a smirk. "Young, beautiful, and obedient."

A beat. "How much?" Percival asks, and he forces himself to sweep the boy's hunched form with a gaze as lustful as he can muster. The men are watching him now with intent.

The man beside Credence now stands. "Not for you. He's sort of my pet at the moment. We have other options on the menu, though."

God, Percival wants to retch. Pet. Menu. Options.

"Oh, dear," Percival says instead of projectile vomiting in their direction. He discards some dollar bills at the feet of the dancing woman next to them, and flicks through the rest of it. "I'd like you to reconsider that. I would pay a higher price."

"Not until you've seen the whole menu. How young are you looking for?" At this, Percival notices Credence start to tremble, his bony fingers gripping his knees.

Percival doesn't answer, instead pretending he is contemplating, when inside he's visualizing publicly executing him. The man's noticed the reaction of Credence too, and he smirks as he lazily continues talking. "We've got some new additions. If you're into fresh blondes—"

Credence's hands are in fists before he suddenly launches himself at the man, a flurry of angry punches. "Shut up—shut up—leave her alone—"

Instantly, the men around him pull him down, and one slaps him, hard, across the face, and another punches him right in the gut, and he sounds like he's gotten the wind knocked out of him. He curls in on himself, gasping, eyes now downcast on the floor.

It takes every fibre of Percival's being to not explode and unload his gun into these assholes' heads. He merely composes himself and clears his throat. He can hear Tina contain a stifled sob in his ear.

"Maybe not so obedient," says the one who slapped him, and fixes his tie. "Well, anyw—"

"Ah, Percival Graves." A silky voice floats into the booth. Behind the chairs, through the door, a platinum blonde man appears, one coloured eye glittering with malice. Percival's throat goes dry.

Gellert Grindelwald, right here in front of him.

"What brings you, a fine FBI agent like yourself, to my establishment?"

In a second, the surrounding men are all standing, pistols drawn towards him, alarm on their faces. Only Credence is sitting on the chair, still shaking.

"Compromised," Percival hisses into his wrist, and Tina doesn't reply—she's already on it. Percival can hear screaming and tables flipping from outside as backup from Abernathy's van begins to arrive.

Grindelwald only smiles widely and brandishes his arms. "My, you're always welcome. Feel free to drop by, but don't bring your friends with you next time. Terrible manners." He slicks his hair once and begins to walk out.

Percival already sees the bodyguard by the door about to pull the trigger. He dives just in time, avoiding the cascade of gunshots over his head, while police forces burst in through the curtain, drilling shots into the suited men.

The first thing Percival thinks of is _Credence_ and he skids across the floor, grabbing a hold of Credence's leg. He tugs, hard, and Credence is down on the floor with him.

"Crawl," he orders, and the boy obediently scuttles after him as he moves backward. He draws his gun, rolling over and crouching.

Tina is just outside and she hooks the boy's elbow, pulling him forward and out of the nightclub—joining the throng of screaming people trying to escape.

Percival turns sharply and starts to fire; he sees the blonde tips of Grindelwald's hair vanish as he disappears behind the back door. Cursing, he ducks a couple chairs thrown and lands a punch on one of the men, but the two men by the door reappear. They have a knife—but are quickly dispatched by a few of the agents behind him.

Percival shoves himself against the door— _damn it, locked_! He backs up, readying his foot, before he kicks it down. The suited men, lying either unconscious or dead on the floor, are dragged away by more armed forces as the rest swarm the entrance. Percival signals five to follow him as they enter.

 **XxX**

Grindelwald's disappeared, as always. However, a row of locked rooms in the back of the nightclub expose the terrible deeds of the man. Modesty Barebone is found, alive and terrified, and the remains of Chastity Barebone are located in the sectioned off area next door—someone had carelessly overdosed her on oxycodone, probably in an effort to calm her down.

Back at the Bureau, Percival finishes off the paperwork detailing what had just occurred while simultaneously cleaning a couple bullet grazes on his arms. He's lucky he didn't actually get hit. Outside in the hallway, through the blinds over the glass windows, Percival can see the bent form of Credence, whose arm is protectively surrounding the little girl, Modesty. They are sitting on a bench, huddled together, told to wait. It's been about fifteen minutes since they sat down.

Percival gets up, having finished, and walks out, leaning against the doorframe. It's late. Almost midnight. The two children would have to be returned to their adopted mother.

Queenie Goldstein comes by, and she lowers herself to their eye level too. She carries a tray holding two cups of warm water and a plate with two warmed up croissants.

"Hey, sweeties, something to eat?" she asks kindly, offering them the croissants.

Modesty is a little more eager than Credence to take it. "Thank you," she says in a small voice, blonde hair bobbing. Credence echoes the girl and takes it too, but he does not eat; instead he watches it a little suspiciously and sticks close to Modesty. Percival's heart warms. He is clearly attached to his little sister.

Queenie stands, smiling sadly at them before leaving, heels clacking on the tiled hallway.

Percival clears his throat and approaches.

"What's your address, kids? I'll drive you back home," he says.

At this, Credence looks up and hollowly pleads, "Please, sir, let us stay here for the night. Or outside."

Percival closes his mouth, unsure. That he normally has no problem with—but why? Why doesn't the boy want to go back home?

Then Percival sees, for the first time.

The way Credence is holding the uneaten croissant, his palm is facing upward. Scars that look years old line the inside of the palm, and Percival has seen a couple cases in his career that involved injuries invoked by a belt.

"Come stay with me for a bit," Percival says finally, without betraying the emotion of silent horror. He gazes upon them with only kindness. "We can talk about… home."

Credence seems to understand and appreciate. Modesty clings on to him, sipping the paper cup of warm water.

 **XxX**

Credence has never seen such expensive, comfortable things in his life. They are in Mr. Graves' upscale, Manhattan apartment, up on the fifteenth floor. The view outside the large window is absolutely gorgeous—the city seems to twinkle underneath him, almost as if it was telling him, _you're okay, the world is still good, you just didn't lose your sister and your world as you know it._

He shivers, not because of cold, and holds on to Modesty's hand a little tighter, who's pressed closer to him.

Mr. Graves sees him shiver—he only eyes them briefly before quickly pressing a couple buttons on a thing on the wall. Credence recognises it as one of those things that let you control the temperature in a house; Ma only has the creaky heat generator in their basement that one has to turn on manually. "Let's make it a little warmer for you guys. I suppose you'll want a hot bath, some clean clothes and well-deserved sleep."

His voice has no hint of malice or impatience that Credence normally hears in Ma's voice.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Graves. But really, we mustn't burden you too much," he says politely. He doesn't want to make Mr. Graves angry. He looks so much more stronger than Ma… if he whips any of them, there's a possibility they wouldn't heal.

"Burden, schmurden," Mr. Graves says, waving his hand. "Nobody lives with me anyway. This apartment's too spacious for just one person." He smiles at them, perhaps trying to lighten the mood, but Credence doesn't know what to say; he keeps silent.

"I do have family who visit, though. My sister, Margaret, she comes by often to stay in New York with her little daughter, Anna. I think, if I look hard enough, she left some clothes behind…" Percival disappears into one of the rooms by them, leaving Credence to look around with Modesty clutching his hand.

"Will we be alright?" she asks nervously, looking up at Credence.

"Yes, Modesty. We're staying the night. I don't think we should go back to Ma's just yet," Credence says, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. Truthfully, he doesn't think Modesty should go back. She wouldn't be able to live past the beating that Ma would give her—she'd probably say something like, _it's your fault you were taken. You weren't vigilant enough._ Maybe, if he proves to Mr. Graves they're obedient children, Modesty could go live with Miss Tina Goldstein, who had been checking on them every two weeks or so. Credence, well, he'd be turning 18 in a couple days. He could find a job, maybe pull together enough to live on his own, and if Modesty wanted, she could live with him—but surely, Miss Goldstein's place was a safer, healthier environment for her.

Mr. Graves, so far, looked nice enough. Credence had seen anger in him back at the nightclub when he'd been beaten up. But it was a righteous anger—after all, was Credence's fury any different?

Mr. Graves returns. On one arm he has a children's size wrinkled pink t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and the other a black cotton longsleeve and adult flannel pajama pants. "Found them! They should fit you, Modesty, and Credence, I just took some of my clothes for you, if you don't mind. I have two bathrooms, so you guys can split if you like." He hands them the clothing as well as some towels that Credence hadn't seen at first.

"Can we stay together, Mr. Graves?" Modesty asks timidly, and Credence winces, expecting a blow from Mr. Graves for being disobedient, but it never comes.

Instead, Mr. Graves is smiling at them. He gestures at the open bathroom to his side.

"Of course. I'll get ready for bed then, if you don't mind." He wanders off.

"Mr. Graves is kind," Modesty says as they gather in the bathroom, which is pristinely white all around. The marble countertop is dry and polished and the sleek silver of the taps reflect the fluorescent light given from the bright bulb behind an ornately decorated shade on the ceiling. The bathtub is clean and inviting, and on the shelf is an array of bottles of scented soaps.

It occurs to Credence he actually doesn't know how to draw a bath. He's only taken showers that Ma made sure he didn't stay too long in, in their tiny, moldy bathroom in their old house. He looks at the haunted reflection of him and Modesty in the large mirror over the sink.

"He is," Credence agrees, running his hands over his eyes. The image of himself is exhausted and anxious. "Let's get ready. I'll try to figure out how this works."

They peel off their old clothing. Credence is disgusted; he can still smell the stench of alcohol and vomit in his nose, even though they have left the nightclub. It sticks on to his clothing, as well as Modesty's, and he has never felt so eager for a bath to wash away the sins on him before. Credence jiggles the tap, turning it until the spout bursts forth clear, lukewarm water—at home, the water would be tinged red or brown from the rusty pipes. He figures out he can plug it using the tiny metal thing at the bottom, and watches the tub start to fill.

Modesty plays with a couple of the bottles, and accidentally topples one into the water. It uncaps.

"Careful," Credence says sharply, picking it up and looking around, as if expecting Ma to appear and slap them for being childish. He places the bottle back on the shelf. However, it's already leaked a substantial amount of soap into the water, and soon the tub is full of frothy, bubbly water—and it smells absolutely heavenly. Credence switches off the tap and looks at the bottle; _Dragonfruit and Watermelon Bubbly Bliss_ is on the bottom, with _Bubble Body Wash_ on top.

Modesty giggles and clambers into it right away. The tub is large and spacious, allowing Credence to settle into it too.

"Can you imagine Mr. Graves in the bath like this too? With all this bubbly?" she asks playfully, and flicks some of the bubbles onto Credence's nose.

Credence bats it away and scrubs at his face, hiding the ghost of a smile on his lips. It would certainly be funny—he's imagining the scene of a man who's strong enough to handle a gun and talk to the scary men around him like Mr. Graves, laughing and splashing in bubbly water like Modesty. Blushing a little bit, Credence reaches for the bottle of shampoo that's from the same brand as the bubble bath soap, and dispenses some onto Modesty's hair, before thoroughly scrubbing through the girl's hair.

"Maybe we'll get to live with Mr. Graves," Modesty says, sighing dreamily and leaning forward for Credence to finish shampooing her hair. "Wouldn't that be nice, Credence?"

"I suppose so," Credence answers, before starting to rinse through her hair. "I wouldn't count on it, though. And we don't really know him that well. It'd be too much to ask of a stranger. He's a police officer, with lots of things to do." FBI agent. He'd heard what Grindelwald called him.

Gellert Grindelwald was his name. The eerily handsome one who had been appearing often to him, telling them he offered a way out of the hell of a house he lived in. "I can provide safety for you and your sisters," he'd whispered, like the serpent in Adam and Eve. "Trust me." And like Eve, Credence had fallen for it, fallen for the man, fallen straight into the trap of kind words and sweet nothings. Grindelwald was everything that Ma had said— _kids like you are going to be targeted by grownups who want you for evil reasons._

Evil reasons they were. Credence wished with all of his heart that he had told Miss Goldstein about the man when she visited, but he hadn't—Grindelwald had told him that it was their little secret. What an idiot he was! Credence hated himself.

He was old enough to realise what was happening when it was too late to back out. Grindelwald had ushered them out of the frying pan and into the fire, with Credence willingly following, right up until a bunch of men separated the three siblings and, when Credence was screaming for his sister to be left alone, was hit across the face and knocked out cold by Grindelwald himself. Damn Grindelwald, damn himself for believing there was another home he could live in without the threat of a belt.

It was his fault. His fault that Chastity was dead… His fault that Modesty could have been subject to all sorts of awful people… Credence's eyes fill with tears that mix into the water. Modesty doesn't notice as she hums while pretending one of the bottles is a submarine in the frothy water, her blissful, children's innocence protecting her from the evils predating Credence's mind.

 **XxX**

Outside the bathroom, Percival fixes three cups of hot chocolate. He'd already set up one of the beds in the guest rooms with freshly laundered sheets and clean blankets. It's warm inside the apartment, but he's not sure if the children would be comfortable.

The way that Credence flinched every time Percival approached or made any sudden movements made him terribly sad. It was like he'd never experienced a kind action in his life.

His phone vibrates on the table. The screen lights up. Tina Goldstein.

"Are they doing okay?" she asks urgently. "If not, they're coming straight over to my house."

"No, don't worry about it, Tina. Your house is cramped enough," Percival says, reclining on his sofa. He knows the situation at Tina's house currently: sister, her new boyfriend, as well as Tina's new boyfriend himself, who apparently brought over a bunch of different animals with him. Credence and Modesty need some peace and quiet right about now, not a mini-zoo and overly suffocating affection that the Goldsteins are sure to give.

"We'll come visit maybe later. I don't know if I plan on bringing them back to their house." Percival pauses.

"Their mother beats them," he and Tina both say at the same time.

"I was about to tell you," Tina says, sighing.

"I saw the scars."

"Make sure they know what love is, Percival. They're children. The boy's eighteen in a few days. I imagine he'll try to take care of Modesty."

"He does, one hundred per cent." Percival inhales. "Credence is only eighteen, huh. He definitely acts older than that."

"He kinda has to, Percival. Look what he's been through. I'll send you more information on him later, but, long story short, Grindelwald exploited him." Tina's voice hardens into anger. "I swear, I'm going to kill that man."

"Same here. Credence'll be our substantial evidence, I believe, but we need to capture him."

"Without our men and women getting killed," Tina adds. "There'll be an opportunity. For now, take care of Credence and Modesty. Keep them safe. Grindelwald's men may target them. They're key witnesses."

"Known," Percival replies, and puts his head in his hands. "Maybe I can just adopt them. Or they can live in my house."

Tina sighs. "Maybe. That might be a better option. Queenie's working on a report to Child Services right now. They're trying to separate the children from Mary Lou Barebone, their adoptive mother."

"Keep me updated," Percival says, as Credence and Modesty emerge from the steaming bathroom. Tina seems to understand by his tone and hangs up with a quick good-bye. Mary Lou Barebone. Percival isn't sure which one is the lesser evil: Mary Lou or Grindelwald.

"Made you guys some hot chocolate," Percival says, mustering a smile. His niece's clothing fits Modesty fine and his own clothing drapes on the thin, tall frame of Credence. Percival fights the sudden urge to hug the two figures. He quickly fetches the two cups for them, sipping from his own. "Can I show you guys your room?"


End file.
